


from the kitchen table

by apolliades



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1930s, Canon Compliant, Coffee, Depression, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-War, did you know toasters in the 30s cost like 80 dollars, like to a point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 19:41:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18531838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolliades/pseuds/apolliades
Summary: Bucky made coffee the morning after Steve buried his mother.





	from the kitchen table

Bucky made coffee the morning after Steve buried his mother. Let himself in real early before work, put the kettle on the stove, and moved, whistling softly, about the kitchen like he owned the place.

Steve hadn't moved from his bed by the time Bucky came in and sat down on the edge.

"I told myself I wouldn't be like this," he said, quietly into his pillow, eyes closed. Bucky's gaze was steady on him and his palm was warm on his brow, on his shoulder through the blanket. "I'm supposed to be better than this, Buck."

Bucky set a mug on the bedside cabinet, handle towards the bed. "You just lost your ma. It's gonna be bad for a while, pal, it’s alright to take it easy."

His voice was the gentlest thing. Guilt and gratitude ran through Steve hand in hand, and he felt it like a shiver. "I'll do better tomorrow," he said.

"You don't gotta worry about tomorrow yet." The backs of Bucky's knuckles brushed the side of Steve's cheek. He couldn't bear to look at him. "Let's just get through today, alright?"

He came back the next morning, and the next, and the next, and made coffee. On the fourth day, God made the stars, and Steve got out of bed when Bucky asked him to try, and washed his face, and combed his hair.

They drank coffee at the kitchen table. Bucky pretended to read the newspaper. Steve knew he was trying to make him feel less embarrassed; it made him feel better and worse both at once.

"Okay." Bucky put down the paper, took his mug to the sink. "I gotta take off, Steve. I'll see you tomorrow, but I want you to do something for me, alright?"

Steve looked up at him with his heart sitting like a weight in his chest. "Sure, Buck. Whatever you need."  
  
Bucky smiled with just the corner of his mouth. "You're a real pal. Alright, here's what I want you to do." He leant on the back of his chair, where his jacket was still slung. "I want you to get up in the morning, make your bed, and make your own coffee. Think you can do that, for me?"

Steve flushed. For a moment he was angry, to be patronised like that. Of course he could. He was a grown man.

But he hadn't, for days. Hadn't changed his clothes since after the wake, and his mouth tasted stale, and his body felt stiff like it did when he'd been stuck in bed sick.

For a moment after the anger passed he was afraid, in case he couldn't.

His voice was slow and rough to come. "Sure, Buck. I can do that."

Bucky's smile was unconditional, like his squeeze to Steve's shoulder. "Thanks, Stevie. See you tomorrow."

In the morning Steve opened his eyes and the light hurt. He lay still for an hour, feeling everything hurt, and waiting for the sound of the key in the lock. When it didn't come, he got up and made the bed, went into the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove, and made coffee.

Bucky was back in the evening, with groceries under his arm for making dinner. The sun was almost down and his jacket was dusty and he looked worn, but he smiled at Steve like he'd never been prouder of anyone.

"Will you do something for me tomorrow, as well?" he asked, as he laced up his shoes.

Steve watched the way his hands moved and the way his hair fell loose when he bent his head. "Sure, Buck."

"Will you get up in the morning, make your bed, and make your coffee? Drink it at the table?"

"Alright."

Bucky came back every day, after work, with food for dinner and a smile on his face.

"You don't have to keep doing this for me," Steve told him, while Bucky was putting away dishes and pretending to listen to the wireless.

Bucky raised an eyebrow at him over his shoulder. "What, you sick of me?"

"No--"

"Quit your complaining, then."

Steve quit his complaining, and that was that. Bucky kept coming back, and Steve kept getting up, and making his bed, and making his coffee. One night Bucky came and never left, and in the morning Steve made his coffee, too. They drank it at the table.

Hell, Steve thought, if it saves him a journey, and kissed him on the temple as he handed him a mug.

 

  
Sam pressed a mug into Steve's hands where he sat on the edge of the bed in his spare room. Spoke to him in this way that was gentle without being soft, squeezed his shoulder, but didn't try to smile.

"Anything you need," he said, and so serious, "just let me know. I got you."

"Thank you, Sam. I hate imposing on you like this--"

"Get outta here with that, Rogers. I'm happy to help. You're my friend."

Steve put his hand over Sam's on his shoulder and left it there a little bit longer than he should have. He missed Bucky like a limb. "I appreciate it," he said, and couldn't look Sam in the face. "I can't tell you how much."

Sam spoke with the small start of a smile, wry. "Yeah, you're welcome. Make yourself at home, alright? Get some sleep. Make some coffee in the morning."

In the morning he got up and made the spare bed neat and when the coffee machine clicked Steve filled them a cup each. When Sam came into the kitchen sleep-rumpled and sincere, looked him in the eye and asked him if he was alright, Steve kissed him. On the mouth, to see if he could, and because he missed it. It didn't help. Sam didn't kiss him back but he put his arms around him, put a hand on the back of his neck so Steve could hide his face in his shoulder.

"It's alright," Sam told him. He was warm and steady, but sounded softer than before. "You're alright, Rogers. Come on, now. Drink your coffee."

 

  
Bucky shuts himself away for days upon days, doesn't eat, doesn't speak because he can't. Steve is no stranger to guilt or grief and knows how they paralyse, and Steve hasn't taken half as many lives as Bucky has.

When he shows face it's because there are lives to be saved, and Steve knows how he thinks, knows it will never be enough to wipe the slate clean. He sees how Bucky's finger wants to flinch from the trigger; he knows he wasn't built for this. He could always throw a punch but he was always such a nice kid. Steve isn't sure when he started looking like a man and stopped looking like a boy.

Steve lets himself in to the room where Bucky lies curled half-under the bed. He'll sleep sometimes beneath, sometimes beside but never on top, because the mattress is too soft and his body doesn't know what to do with it.

"I'm not allowed in the field anymore," he mumbles to the floor, "Some bullshit about not being well enough."

Steve sits down beside him, draws his knees up to his chest. Bucky's voice is so quiet.

"I think you're the only thing keeping me here, Stevie," he says. "I know I'm going to Hell but I ain't afraid of dying. I just don't want to leave you again."

If it's selfish to be glad Steve can't feel guilty for it. He doesn't want Bucky to suffer but he wants him to be here.

He lies down face to face with him and moves his hair back from his brow. It touches his shoulders now; sometimes, his head in Steve's lap, he lets him braid it. "D'you remember when my ma died?"

"Steve. This ain't the same."

"No, I know. But the world kept on turning then and it's sure as hell gonna keep on turning now. And since you ain't going anywhere, I got something I want you to do for me."

It hurts a little, asking, when already Bucky has done so much for him. When he knows that every breath Bucky takes is only because he can't bear to leave Steve alone. It hurts a little, when he says, "Sure, sweetheart, whatever you need."

"Tomorrow morning," he says, "I want you to get up, put the blankets back on the bed. And then," he says, as Bucky's eyes close, as his face folds, "I want you to make a cup of coffee. And I'll make one too, and we'll drink 'em together, alright?"

Tears pool in the space where the floor meets Bucky's cheek. Drip from his nose. Steve needs him to speak. "Think you can do that, Buck? For me?"

Steve comes and asks him every evening for a week. On the seventh day even God rests, so Steve fills the mugs, and they drink them in bed.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i borrowed the coffee thing from a reddit comment & the title from harry styles sort-of. i can only write in round hundreds anymore. who knows!
> 
> ps i love comments and YOU


End file.
